Saturday, 13 October 2012

The Fanny Show

Act 1.

Fanny Eagleton was created by the simple chemical reaction
of silicon and oestrogen under a bright light. In a puff of Chanel no. 5 she
appears in the sepia glaze of Collins Street
behind her Ray Ban prescriptions. Like her middle-to-menopause-aged divorcée
after three glasses of red and a bath bomb target audience, we follow her up
the concrete catwalk. Mike holds the boom over his shoulder like he’s gone
fishin’. Marty’s head is down, hoping desperately that no-one recognises him
from his university days. I’ve got the camera trained on Fanny’s straining
bra-strap.

But up
ahead the top-heavy totem pole of flesh has stopped. Like shadows we pull up
behind her.

“Marty!”
she says. “Can we get a shot of me giving money to that bum?”

She points
a $150 fingernail at a hobo wrapped in charity bin off-cuts and slanting a
cardboard sign across his lap. The whole show relies on keeping Fanny happy and
she’s already asking Mike if he has change for a fifty. Marty approaches the
hobo gingerly.

“Hi,” he
says, offering a hand. “Martin Sherwood.”

“Do you
want me to sign a petition for something, Martin?” asks the bum.

“No,” says
Marty politely. “I am the director of The Fanny Show.” Marty knows better than
to pause after that statement. “We were hoping that we could film Fanny giving
you a… donation.”

“What sort of show is this?” asks
the bum.

“It’s a reality show.”

“What, so you film this broad
going about her life?”

“Yes.”

“See, this is why I don’t bother
owning a TV.”

Marty watches the bum’s brain
moving through the gaunt outline of his forehead, asking himself why out of all
the hopeless dropkicks in this city too lazy to hold up a Big Issue, did we
stopped at him? Does he look the most harmless deadshit on Collins
Street? Or the most pathetic? Maybe he’s the most
photogenic? His parents did tell him he looked like a young Mickey Rourke.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll do it
for $200.”

“What?” stammers Marty. “Listen
mate, we’re giving you publicity here. You’re going to be that homeless man off
the TV. Fans of the show will be lining up to give you money.”

“That’s why I want you to give me
the $200 off camera and her to give me a dollar on camera. No, two dollars.”

This shrewd bastard has too much
business sense. No wonder he’s at the Paris End of Collins Street. Thommo at
the office will shit himself if he hears that his Monday night stocking filler
blew two hundred bucks on a bum.

“Hold on,” says Marty. “I’ll talk
to Fanny.”

Act 2.

Fanny is rubbing lipstick on lipstick while Jock holds a
mirror.

“Listen
Fanny,” says Marty. “I think it is wrong to exploit this poor man on
television. The audience won’t believe you are doing it from the goodness of
your heart if there are cameras trained on you.”

“But…” says
Fanny. “But Jock just lent me ten dollars.”

“If you
want to give him the ten dollars,” says Marty, “then you are doing a wonderful
thing. But I just don’t think we should film it.”

With a
flick of her eyelashes, Fanny begins dropping Lois Vuitton bags across the
pavement.

“What are
you doing?” asks Marty.

“I’m
looking for my phone,” says Fanny, “so I can call the network and tell them
what you’re doing.” The scattered bundle of bags is blocking pedestrians and a
few people who have recognised Fanny’s breasts from television have gathered
around to watch.

“Fanny,
don’t make a scene,” says Marty weakly.

“I am the
fucking scene!” says Fanny. She locates her phone and furiously mashes the
screen in an attempt to unlock it. After several painstaking seconds she turns
to her small crowd of women built from sausage meat.

“Do you all want to see me give
money to this bum?” she cries.

Spasms of noise blurt from the
crowd. Marty turns to me.

“Alright,” he says. “Roll film.”

Act 3.

Fanny approaches the bum. She has taken off the Ray Ban’s so
the bum can see the eyes that wooed fame and fortune.

“Hello,”
says Fanny. “I’m Fanny Eagleton.”

“I know who you are,” says the
bum.

Fanny smiles, clearly flattered
by the breadth of her notoriety.

“And what’s your name?” she asks.

The bum holds his cardboard sign
below his face and stares long into the camera lens as if maybe he can see the
audience on the other side.

“Martin Sherwood,” he says.

Fanny glances at Marty.

“Really?” she says.

“Yep,” says the bum. “After I
flunked film school I got a job filming star-struck celebrities going shopping.
When it was noticed that I was a total fraud at life, nobody hired me again. So
I ended up in the street.”

Fanny’s
newly lipstuck mouth hangs open in shock.

“I was
going to give you ten dollars,” she stammers. “But now I’m not going to give
you anything!”

Then she turns and walks back to
the camera. She takes Marty’s hand and pulls him away down the street.

“Don’t
listen to him, Marty,” she says. If he’s going to make a living sucking pity
out of people then he has to learn some respect.”

“Why not?”
I ask him. “It’s the perfect scene. It’s almost too good to be true.”

“Firstly,
it makes Fanny out to be the hero. It breaks with her character as a
one-dimensional bimbo. Secondly, it draws attention to the Fanny Show for
exploiting Fanny as a one-dimensional bimbo. Thirdly, Fanny would never be seen
with a bum and even if she was, this bum has neither the charisma nor sex
appeal to pull off prime time. Would you like me to go on?”

“No. I
think you’ve made your point.”

“Look kid,”
he says with a hand on my shoulder. “Marty is your boss, and it’s pretty
heartless to make him look like an idiot on primetime television. Delete the
footage.”

But my
editor is a spineless chain smoker who never aspired to anything higher than
The Fanny Show. When he is gone I slip the tape into my pocket.